


And I Still See Stars Burning in Your Eyes

by Herodias



Series: The Mortal God [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale is a little fanboy, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Crowley spent some time in Italy and that's canon, Crowley's Fall, Fallen Angels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Italian Renaissance, M/M, Of course there's fluff, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Retirement, it's almost cute, it's the ineffable husbands after all, okay i lied there is a bit of fluff in the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:50:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodias/pseuds/Herodias
Summary: When Lucifer and some other angels fell, he was the only archangel who wasn’t disgusted. He tried to heal them and became the patron of those who are ill, for now illness and pain were invented. It is said that his wings turned black the moment he entered Hell to heal Lucifer. And, according to the legend, he is the only creature to have ever looked at the Almighty in the eyes and asked Them “Why? Why would You cast them out instead of proving them the holiness of Your love?” And as he spoke he FellAfter the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley try to find a new balance. But it's not easy when the past still haunts them





	And I Still See Stars Burning in Your Eyes

The worst part of the rest of their lives was not swapping bodies and make Heaven and Hell leave them alone once and for all, no. The worst part of the rest of their lives was finding a new balance. It was something that was bound to happen eventually, and the almost-Armageddon proved itself to be the perfect catalyst, weirdly enough.

They dined at the Ritz, that first evening, and it appeared to be the ideal ending. Except life is not a book, and taking the next step was not only necessary, but absolutely fundamental. And obviously they took the wrong one. That night, Aziraphale went back to his bookshop, despite the feeling of being an intruder in his own home. It clearly wasn’t his bookshop anymore, without the tick coat of dust and the dim lights and the original tomes. Even the step he had so carefully placed to make potential costumers trip wasn’t there anymore, which made the shop so awfully people-friendly. And, he noticed with utter despair, his collection of Infamous Bibles was gone, probably by divine intervention. What a pity.

Crowley, on the other hand, went back to his apartment. It never was cozy or personal, granted, but it had never felt so alienating either. At least, the Ligur-puddle wasn’t there anymore, since Aziraphale had miracled it away the previous night, when they plotted the body swap. It was a relief, not much because of how dangerous could’ve been to have a puddle of holy water in the middle of the house, rather because it was a truly depressing view; it was a reminder that nothings lasts forever, not even angels and demons, and that he could’ve shared Ligur’s fate only a few hours before, had he and Aziraphale not outsmarted both the archangels and the dukes of Hell. Anyway, they were very much alive, although nothing was the same. Even shouting at the plants didn’t have the same appeal as before.

~~~

It took them some time to find a new balance. It started with Crowley spending most of the day at the bookshop, bringing in a couple of plants now and then and enough chaotic energy to drive the new costumers away. It started with Aziraphale spending almost every night in Crowley’s apartment, leaving around all the books he would brought with him; the intention was to read all night long, maybe with a cup of hot cocoa to sip now and then, while Crowley slept on the sofa by his side, but the usual scene pictured the demon’s head on his lap, his fingers running through red hair, a smile on both faces and a book long forgotten on the coffee table. It started with an angel and a demon on the usual bench in Hyde Park, feeding ducks, sitting a tad too close, brushing hands now and then.  
They were in no rush. Now that the world wasn’t ending anytime soon, they had so much time ahead of them, even eternity, possibly. And yet, it felt like it wasn’t enough.

Things were good, but there was room for improvement. Things were nice, but it wasn’t the balance they were looking for, not in the long run.

Surprisingly, it was Aziraphale who suggested it. «Wouldn’t it be nice to leave London and go somewhere… quieter?»

«Like where?» asked Crowley, slightly puzzled.

«I don’t know. A cottage in the South, perhaps?»

«Won’t you miss the bookshop?»

«It’s hardly my bookshop anymore. Besides, we can pack whatever we can’t bring ourselves to leave behind and just… you know… go off radar.»

Yes. Maybe that could work.

~~~

And Aziraphale thought _he_ was the one to own the most human junk. Honestly, it was a miracle all their stuff fitted inside the Bentley, sparing them to make multiple journeys from London to the South Downs.

It would’ve been easier to miracle everything in the proper spot, but angel thought it was funnier to do it himself. Of course Crowley deemed the activity too boring and disappeared in the garden to study his new plants. And of course Aziraphale decided to sort the demon’s stuff first.

The large boxes contained all sort of things; one contained a collection of records and CDs, half of which were _Best of Queen_. It was ridiculous to keep all of them, but the angel didn’t have the heart to throw them all away, at least not without threatening Crowley first.

Moving onto the next box, he found a carefully wrapped painting. Now, that was a surprise; the demon didn’t seem the type to appreciate figurative art. Speaking of which, he suddenly appeared with two cups of tea.

«Found anything interesting?» He froze when he realised what Aziraphale was holding.

«This is such a fine portrait, my dear. When did you pose for it?»

«Oh, I didn’t. That’s not me.»

«You sure? - he frowned - It does look like you. There is something odd about it, though. It’s like something is missing.»

«I told you, that’s not me.»

«Who is he, then?»

«Nobody. Just leave it.» And with that he shoved a cup in the angel’s hands.

Aziraphale felt mortified. It was obvious that the painting was important to him, or maybe the person pictured was. Either way, something was wrong and he couldn’t figure out what.

« _In Rafaello would shine all the illustrious soul’s virtues, along with grace, beauty, modesty and good manners, which would’ve hidden any awful vice, and mark, no matter how big. One could say that whoever has Rafaello’s gifts is not a common man, but a mortal god._ »

Aziraphale was confused, but Crowley didn’t let him talk.

«It’s from “Le vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architetti” by Giorgio Vasari. Specifically, it’s from Raffaello Sanzio’s biography. That’s the guy in the portrait - well, self-portrait. Young sweet Fell.»

«You knew him? I had no idea you went to Italy.»

«I spent there most of the Renaissance. It was… interesting. I was best friend with Leonardo da Vinci, that genius bastard. And Michelangelo, always so gloomy and grumpy. The funny thing is that you didn’t need demonic influences to spice things up. Raffaello was different, though. Such a gentle and innocent soul. I never managed to tempt him, not once. Can you believe it?»

Aziraphale smiled. Knowing Crowley, he probably hadn’t even tried so hard to tempt the guy, but the demon would never admit it.

Crowley took the painting from the angel’s hands and carefully inspected it. His smile was fond and bittersweet, and Aziraphale began to worry; last time the demon appeared to be so heart-broken it was when he thought he had lost his angel forever.

«You were right.» He murmured.

«About what?»

«He looked almost like me. Or rather, like I used to look. Before, you know…»

«Oh.» Aziraphale was taken aback. Crowley never really talked about his Fall, so this was a surprise.

«You said something is missing. That would be cruelty, I think. Raffaello was absolutely incapable of being cruel. He reminded me of myself, of what I could’ve been had I not fallen. I would watch him paint beautiful images and remember glimpses of when I used to create nebulas with the same care and enthusiasm. It was like staring in a mirror. When Death claimed him too soon, it felt like a joke, except only the Lord was laughing. “You thing you’ve suffered enough, Crowley? Then let me put here this lad who has your face and your name and the pure soul you once had and watch him fall”. What a son of a bi- »

«Crowley, please.» Aziraphale interrupted him, as he put a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

It was heart-breaking to finally realise that not only the demon was capable of loving him against all the odds, he had always been able to love, and he had cared deeply for this human, this painter that everybody believed to be a mortal god, even. And, if he was so fond of Raffaello, then how many other humans had he loved in the past centuries, or even millennia?

But there was something that bugged Aziraphale even more, if possible.  
«Hold on, did you say you shared his name?»

Crowley looked guilty, as if he had said too much. «Yeah, possibly.»

«Does that mean you used to be that Raphael? The archangel Raphael?»

«What does it matter? - he downplayed, waving a hand - It’s not like I’m still… that.»

«What does it matter, you say? But my dear fellow, it means everything!»

Aziraphale was now staring at Crowley with dreamy eyes. It wasn’t the kind of adoration of somebody staring at their significant other, more like of a fan staring at their favourite singer during a concert.

«I adored Raphael! I mean, all the wonderful galaxies he created single-handedly! And his eyes, his mesmerising eyes! How many angels have literal burning stars as eyes?»

«Aziraphale…»

«And he was so kind and brave, so compassionate!»

«Oh, shut up!»

«When Lucifer and some other angels fell, he was the only archangel who wasn’t disgusted. He tried to heal them and became the patron of those who are ill, for now illness and pain were invented. It is said that his wings turned black the moment he entered Hell to heal Lucifer. And, according to the legend, he is the only creature to have ever looked at the Almighty in the eyes and asked Them “Why? Why would You cast them out instead of proving them the holiness of Your love?” And as he spoke he-»

«Yes! He Fell! - shouted Crowley, promptly putting his sunglasses on and turning his back to the angel - I know the goddamn story!»

In that moment Aziraphale realised it wasn’t an ordinary story; it was the truth. The mythical archangel Raphael wasn’t just a tale from the dawn of time; he was real, and right in front of him and, apparently, shedding silent tears.  
He pulled him into a hug, gently, and Crowley didn’t pull away, to his relief.

«I’m sorry, my dear - he whispered into his ear - I didn’t realise the stories were true. They seemed like fairytales, fascinating but, well, just fairytales. I looked up to Raphael like one looks up to a character in a book.»

«I’m sorry - he sobbed, burying his head in the angel’s shoulder - I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations.»

«You must be joking! I couldn’t believe there could be someone so kind to forgive the Fallen Angels, so brave to call out the Lord Themselves. And to think that that someone stood up once again merely two years ago and stopped the Apocalypse! No, darling, you didn’t live up to the expectations, you exceeded them.»

«That’s not who I am. I’m not that archangel, not anymore.»

Aziraphale disentangled from the embrace and took Crowley’s sunglasses.

«When I gave my flaming sword to Adam and Eve, I knew it was the right thing to do, for that was what the archangel Raphael would’ve done. And when I held that very sword again, I knew that rebelling against Armageddon was the right thing to do, for the demon Crowley inspired me, and showed me what really matters in this silly old universe.»

He caressed Crowley’s cheek with his thumb, drying his tears, and stared into his eyes, those gorgeous, golden eyes, not so different from Raphael’s, after all.

«You may not be the person in the portrait. You may not have Raffaello Sanzio’s grace, or manners, or virtues. Your eyes may not be burning stars and your wings pure white. But you are so much more than that. So much more. And I admire who you used to be the same way one can admire a sunset, or a starry night. But I love you for who you are, right here and right now, demon and all. I love you.»

Crowley felt overwhelmed, to the point he wasn’t even able to reply. All he could do was look at Aziraphale, as the angel picked up the portrait and said «Well, then. We should find a nice spot to hung this up. Perhaps in the library?»

For the first time in six thousand years, Crowley didn’t regret his Fall; he had fallen exactly where he was meant to be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me tell you, Crowley would’ve loved Italian Renaissance. I can picture him spreading discord among artists, to makes things more interesting (you wouldn’t believe some real stories - I love Renaissance)  
> I didn’t make up Raffaello’s description, I translated it from Vasari’s book myself. I even kept the original spelling of the name, because it felt wrong to change it.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope you liked it enough to leave a comment!


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